


i need somebody so i won't have to pretend

by copernicusjones



Category: Reservoir Dogs (1992)
Genre: (Vincent and Vic for that tag), (honestly smoking should be the First tag since this is from Vic's pov lmao), (just a few slurs but tagging to be safe), Asexual Character, Complicated Relationships, Fade to Black, First Kiss, Flashbacks, Friends to Lovers, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Lots of it, M/M, Pre-Canon, Smoking, Swearing, They're 18 in the main part of the story just fyi, Underage Drug Use, but in a toothpick bitchslap kind of way, tons - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:08:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24823603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/copernicusjones/pseuds/copernicusjones
Summary: Vincent gets kicked out, and wants Vic to come with him.  They're brothers; they gotta have each others' backs.No.  Vic already has someone he can turn to.  So he does.
Relationships: Mr. Blonde (Reservoir Dogs) & Vincent Vega, Mr. Blonde/"Nice Guy" Eddie Cabot
Comments: 7
Kudos: 18





	i need somebody so i won't have to pretend

**Author's Note:**

  * For [basterd_avi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/basterd_avi/gifts).



> Title from the Partridge Family's "Doesn't Somebody Want to be Wanted" (followed by Edison Lighthouse's "Love Grows where my Rosemary Goes", as K-Billy Super Sounds of the 70's keeps on... truckin'...)

_“God-fucking-dammit, you want this to heal or not? Hold the fuck still.”_  
  
_But Vic flinches. Someone touching him, meaning to show kindness is more frightening than the tooth-loosening backhand Dad laid on him for being out late. It's so foreign, this act of being cared for. Mom used to, before she had all that caring knocked out of her. Now it's Vincent's turn, and he sucks at it._  
  
_Vic hisses, closes his eyes as Vincent's fingers brush the nasty gash Dad's ring left on his cheekbone._  
  
_“You knew he'd react like this.” Vincent applies a light pressure to the butterfly bandage, ensuring it sticks._  
  
_“Yeah,” Vic mutters, wincing and rubbing his cheek. It still stings, reeks of the splash of Barton's Vincent used because they didn't have anything else to disinfect it with. He said Dad wouldn't notice the little bit gone, and Vic didn't feel like arguing._  
  
_“Good thing you got me. And I got you, you know? We fuckin' got each other through this shit, and we'll make it out. Okay?”_  
  
_“Okay,” Vic says blandly. He knows he can't do a damn thing to 'be there' for Vincent the way Vincent tries to be for him. Vic's taller, but Vince is stronger. Can throw a better punch, and can dodge 'em faster too. Vic's always a step behind, and scrawny, too. All knobby knees and elbows. Toothpick Vic, he'd get called. Vincent still calls him that, because Vincent thinks annoying the piss out of Vic is the best way to show affection. Like all the other things in life that irritate him, Vic's taught himself to ignore it. Detach himself. Not care._  
  
_Vincent and his comments. The kids at school. Dad's hollering and the crack of his belt. Himself. Vic just doesn't care about any of it. He doesn't want to be there for Vincent. He doesn't want to be here, period._  
  
_Until tonight. This was worth it. Vic huffs out a little laugh, smirks. From his back pocket, he pulls out a wad of bills. Thirty-two dollars. “Here ya go.” He tosses a few of the bills at Vincent. “Thanks, Nurse Vega.”_  
  
_“'The fuck did you get this?” Vincent fingers through the bills. “You better not be dealin', Vic. That's a conflict of interest, you know, I already got—”_  
  
_“At the rink. Met this kid who goes to St. Mark's.”_  
  
_“St. Mark's? The fuckin' prep school, St. Mark's?”_  
  
_“Yeah. Me an' him hustled a bunch of upperclassmen at pool. Split it and went to Big Kahuna. That's what's left.”_  
  
_“Shit, don't go hobnobbin' with those preppies. They'll chew you up and spit you out. You're nothin' to them.”_  
  
_“Nah, this guy's nice. He's not like that. He's... he's cool.” Vic frowns. Vincent always acts like he knows better—he doesn't know shit. Look at all the trouble he gets his own ass into. That's why Vic likes Eddie so much already. Eddie hadn't put himself above Vic, made him try to prove anything—yet Vic had found himself wanting to do so, all the same, for the first time he could remember._  
  
_“What's this 'nice guy's' name?”_  
  
_“Eddie Cabot.”_  
  
_“Alright, but you stay sharp around this Eddie Cabot. And if he fucks you over, you let me know.”_

_Vic hops down off the bathroom sink. "Not gonna happen.” And he means that not just regarding Eddie screwing him over, but to any and all of Vincent's request._  
  
_Vincent stuffs his payment into his jeans, reaches up to sling an arm around Vic. “For his sake, he better fucking hope not.”_

* * *

Looks like Joe never made good on his promise to have the tree branch sawed off.  
  
Vic hoists himself up into one of the many oak trees in the Cabots' front yard. Same one he climbed up on over the fall, when he tried to smuggle some beer to a grounded Eddie, and the window got smashed. But that was Eddie's fault. If he woulda paid attention enough to hear the acorns Vic had initially thrown, Vic would've never had to chug one of the beers and use the empty bottle instead.  
  
Vic had gotten into Eddie's room over all the broken glass, slicing his hand up in the process. Eddie reamed him out, and then got reamed out himself when Joe came storming in and accused Eddie of throwing a tantrum over being grounded. Vic, having snuck back out, had huddled into the tree to watch it unfold with a shit-eating grin plastered on his face—until Joe threatened to shoot him down like a damn squirrel.  
  
The window's repaired now, and Vic doesn't have any bottles or acorns to throw. He didn't bring anything from home: a change of clothes, his bookbag, his smokes. All he'd been able to think about was going after Vincent, and that didn't work. Now he's here.  
  
Luckily, the window's already cracked open. Probably never closed from when Vic was over the other night and Eddie had to aerate the cigarette smoke out.  
  
“Hey Eddie,” he tries. “ _Eddie_. Wake up, you asshole.”  
  
The asshole doesn't wake up.  
  
Fuck it.  
  
Vic eases down the bobbing branch, stretches for the window. Shit. He can't quite reach it, but knows what can.  
  
Carefully, he bends his leg up to retrieve the folding knife from his boot. With the blade out, it just catches under the jamb, and is sturdy enough to hold as Vic slowly but surely opens it the rest of the way.  
  
The light flicks on.  
  
“Jesus Christ, Vic, it's two in the morning!”  
  
Guess Eddie's awake now.  
  
Vic crawls forward and, with a little push, lets his upper half gracelessly fall into the room, inches from Eddie's bare feet. The sill digs into his gut as he hauls the rest of himself inside. “Yeah, thanks, Eddie. I can tell time.”  
  
“Sorry, didn't know since you don't know how to _use a fuckin' door_ ,” he says as Vic walks right past him and to Eddie's king-size bed. “Goddammit, I thought you were a burglar, or a kidnapper!”  
  
“You did not.”  
  
He doesn't have time for Eddie's dramatics. Vic makes himself comfortable, clicks on the TV and starts flipping through whatever's on this time of night. Mostly off-air static. He settles on _The Twilight Zone_ rerun that's just beginning. Lets Rod Serling's voice wash over him, closing his eyes with the remote still clutched and resting on his chest.  
  
There's the weight of Eddie climbing into bed next to him, and the remote's snatched from Vic's hand. Eddie still sounds pissed when he asks, “You gonna bother tellin' me why you're here then? Two in the goddamn morning on a Tuesday night?”  
  
“You said I was welcome here, whenever. So'd your dad.” _If I need someplace safe_ , he leaves out. That was always the implication.  
  
Of course he's never taken Eddie or Joe up on it. He's not going to burden them more than he already does, when he spends nearly every day after school, entire weekends, here. They're too good to him.  
  
“Yeah, well, you better not be runnin' from the cops or anything.” Eddie's managed to relax somewhat; sound casual when it's clear this topic is anything but. “Now, I don't got any issue protecting you, but you know how Daddy feels about you getting into that kind of trouble.”  
  
Vic opens his eyes, sits up to face Eddie. Sighs. He's gonna have to get this over with. “Vincent left.”  
  
“ _Left_?” Eddie repeats. “The fuck you mean?”  
  
“Like he's not...” Vic makes a useless motion, as he forces the night's events to shape into words. “ _Here_ anymore. You know he's been doin' blow, and he's got Mom started on it too. She told Dad, he and Dad started havin' it out. It escalated.” Pause. Just to drive home the point of what he means by that. “Got kicked out.”  
  
“Shit, I coulda seen this comin' if I was blind in both eyes. You didn't get the boot too, didja?”  
  
Vic shakes his head.  
  
The next obvious question. “You're... not hurt or nothin'?”  
  
“No.” Physically, anyway. Vic had emotionally removed himself from all this bullshit long ago, but tonight's different. After the ensuing argument with Vincent, it's so _real_ , like it somehow wasn't before.  
  
And maybe Eddie's right, that Vincent had it coming, but being there? Seeing Vincent go after Dad instead of the other way around, and having to find a space to file it away, amid the dozens of other incidents that have already melted together into one?  
  
He really doesn't fucking feel like it. Doesn't have the energy. So it's just _there,_ bright and flashing neon in his mind, over and over again.  
  
Vic's used to bottling it up. Keeping it in. Nothing wrong with that; no one ever asks, so that's just how it goes, and it's suited him fine all these years.  
  
He's grateful that Eddie lets him. Lets him take things at his own pace instead of how Vincent snaps at him for being so evasive and cryptic. How Dad always told them both to be a man and speak up, and now punishes them nine times out of ten when they do.  
  
But there's no more room. If he tries to cram tonight down into that bottle, it's going to explode, and he is going to fucking destroy something. Or someone. And he wants to, _so fucking badly_ , but he refuses to fuck Eddie over. That's why he's here tonight; not just to get away from the world, but to get the world away from him.  
  
He rips the cap off the bottle. “It's fucked, Eddie.” Pause, try to get a grip on this. Where is he even going with it? “It's always fucked, but...”  
  
“But...?” Eddie prompts. “C'mon, Vic, finish your sentences. I can't read your twisted fuckin' mind... thank God.”  
  
Vic turns his full attention back to the TV. “Nevermind. Like you said, it's two in the goddamn morning. Don't got time to talk about this.”  
  
“Hey,” Eddie moves closer, cups his hand at the base of Vic's neck. “Fine with me. If you don't wanna talk, then I can tell ya all about the cassette player Daddy's having installed in the Firebird.” Like he hasn't already gushed about it twenty times.  
  
If it was anyone but Eddie goading Vic to talk, he'd tell them to shut the fuck up, then double down on keeping quiet. But it _is_ Eddie, so... “Shut the fuck up. Just don't bitch when I tell you things you don't wanna hear.”

* * *

_For being such a hulking wall of a man, Mr. Cabot's surprisingly light on his feet. He sneaks up on Vic and Eddie.  
  
“What the hell is this?”  
  
They both shoot up from where they're crouched in front of Mr. Cabot's liquor cabinet. Eddie stupidly tries to hide the half-pint of Remy Martin he's holding behind his back. Vic doesn't even bother with concealing the Wild Turkey he nabbed from home.  
  
Per usual, Eddie speaks up first. “Hey, Daddy...! Me and Vic, we were just—!”  
  
“Shaddup!” Mr. Cabot reaches behind Eddie's back, pulling the cognac loose. “Don't give me horseshit answers, Eddie. I know what you were up to!”  
  
“Daddy, listen, it's not what you think...!” He motions to Vic. “See, Vic here—”  
  
“I ain't talkin' about 'Vic here', I'm talkin' to you. You rope your friends into doin' your dirty work for ya, is that it?”  
  
This is the loudest Vic's ever heard Mr. Cabot—which isn't that loud, but it doesn't need to be, with how intimidating he is. Eddie's in deep shit. He stammers out more protests but Mr. Cabot's brandishing the cognac almost as he might a gun, dressing Eddie down. All Eddie can do is take it, alternating between nodding and apologizing at the appropriate places.  
  
In all his gesticulating, Mr. Cabot rears his arm back, the one holding the cognac. Vic sees this, then instant shutter-flashes of the inevitable outcome. Mr. Cabot's arm swinging around. Fist, bottle, bashing Eddie across the face. Eddie, dropping like a sack of potatoes.  
  
He can't let that happen. To Eddie, anyway._  
  
_On autopilot, Vic pushes Eddie behind him. He doesn't flinch, looking at an uncharacteristically startled Mr. Cabot.  
  
He doesn't get hit. Touched at all. Now what? He has to come up with some bullshit lie. An explanation.  
  
“Mr. Cabot. Here.”_ _Vic holds out the bottle of rye, and Mr. Cabot takes it. “Eddie said your birthday's comin' up—that's what this was for. I told Eddie I wanted to surprise you with it. He was just movin' the cognac so I could hide this behind it.”  
  
Mr. Cabot examines the bottle. It's obviously been dipped into. But it's the best Vic could come up with—and it's not a lie, exactly; Eddie had mentioned offhand about his dad's approaching birthday.  
  
Even as Vic gains awareness that he's sold his story to Mr. Cabot, his heart's still pounding. He can't erase the prospect of Eddie suffering for what had been his idea; sneaking into their dads' respective liquor supplies, to get a buzz on and bring something to smuggle into the Eagles concert. _

_“You didn't go out and get this, did you?” Illegally, he means.  
  
“No, sir, it's from home. But you deserve it more than my old man does.” Vic never wants sympathy, but if he can deflect from Eddie, put the focus on him... “An' you probably won't drill me after you drink it, either.”  
  
He can almost hear Eddie's jaw hit the floor.  
  
Mr. Cabot, on the other hand, just sorta grunts. “You got problems at home, Vic?”  
  
Other people might see it that way, but Vic doesn't. Again, he tells the truth. “Nothing I can't handle.”  
  
Mr. Cabot's beady eyes shine with approval. “Nah, you're a tough kid—could teach Eddie a thing or two about asserting yourself. I appreciate the gift, even if you tested it first _—_ don't think I don't know.”  
  
“Yes, Mr. Cabot.”  
  
“You've been hangin' around here enough—it's just Joe,” Mr. Cabot—Joe—says. He pats Vic on the upper arm. “Toothpick Vic, eh? That's what my son calls you.”  
  
Eddie heard Vincent call Vic that one goddamn time and started using it facetiously. Enough to provoke Vic into using Vincent's moniker for Eddie, which bothered him just as much. Now, after over a year, it's the furthest thing from an annoyance; it's just part of their language with each other, and more of _their _thing than it ever was Vincent's.  
  
But it can be Joe's thing too, if it keeps Eddie from getting decked. Vic attempts a smile. “Yeah...”  
  
“Well, you listen to me, 'Toothpick Vic': you're a good friend—I can see why Eddie likes you, the way you stick by him.”  
  
Vic's about to exhale with relief...  
  
“But you lie to my face again and I'll see to it you're snapped like a got-damn toothpick. Got it?”  
  
Vic swallows, expression going blank again. He nods once. “Yeah. Got it.”  
  
“Good.” Joe's gaze roves to Eddie. “Now, where're the tickets?”  
  
Eddie produces the tickets from the chest pocket of his denim jacket. He silently hands them to Joe.  
  
“Eh, Vic here givin' me the whiskey, and you got me these tickets.” Joe chuckles to himself, lizardy smile appearing as he scans over the tickets. They're only eight rows back. “Nice early birthday treat.”  
  
“B-But!” Eddie's still visibly shaken, and Vic knows it's not from Joe's reaction. “There's two tickets. Who're you goin' with?”  
  
“Whoever I damn well please, and none of your business. You're grounded, Eddie. One week. Thank your pal Toothpick Vic here that it ain't two.”  
  
Fuck. Eddie's still in trouble—but it could have been way worse, Vic knows, if he hadn't intervened. He still can't shake the image of Joe knocking Eddie across his wise-ass mouth. That's what would've happened... right?  
  
“Now say goodbye and get your ass upstairs. You got three minutes. Starting one minute ago.” Joe looks to Vic, tells him with far less bite, “You take care, Vic.”  
  
Vic nods his wordless assent, and Joe departs up the stairs.  
  
Eddie stares at where Joe was, then at Vic. Vic's never seen him this stricken.  
  
“See ya 'round.” Taking this as his cue to leave and giving Eddie a lazy wave, Vic heads out of the den and to the door, pulling a carton of smokes from his leather jacket. Over his shoulder, he adds, “In a week, I guess.”  
  
“The fuck is wrong with you?” Eddie barks at him. “That shit wasn't funny.”  
  
“I wasn't being funny, Eddie. Who's laughing? I'm not.” He exhales, long and full. “You're not.”  
  
Eddie's footsteps behind him stop. Then start again.  
  
“Fuckin' Christ, Vic.” Eddie catches up to him. “I'm sorry.”  
  
“For what?” Vic's halfway down the lane leading off the Cabot's property. He doesn't mind walking home. He needs the time to himself, anyway.  
  
“Pushin' you around sometimes. I'm sorry,” Eddie repeats, a slight break in his voice.  
  
“Oh, that's what that was? Those little love taps of yours?” Vic's not going to explain that he likes when Eddie gets rough with him, likes the lingering pain that's not meant with any sort of malice. Or that he hopes he can return the favor sometime, but right now doesn't trust himself to stay in control, and the last thing he wants is to _actually _hurt Eddie._ _Because he knows Eddie won't ever hurt him.  
  
And if Eddie can't figure that out himself, that's his own fuckin' problem.  
  
“I'm serious!” Eddie practically screeches.  
  
“I am too.” Vic blinks up at the sky, at the honking asshole gulls flapping by, because he can't stand to look at Eddie. “Don't get all fuckin' sentimental, Nice Guy. You don't have to worry about me.”  
  
“Don't tell me what to fucking do, Vic! I'll worry about you all I goddamn want!”  
  
“Suit yourself.” Vic douses his cigarette by stubbing it into the nearby birdbath. “I'm outta here.”  
  
Eddie curses at him for the cigarette, but lets him leave. It takes Vic the whole walk home to work the sick knot out of his stomach.  
  
He wasn't being funny when he told the Cabots about his dad. But he laughs, finds it absolutely fucking hilarious, when his dad's reaction to the whiskey being lifted is the same as if he'd downed a few glasses. With each strike, Vic just keeps laughing. Laughs even more as he finally gets the balls to hit back. It's not as hard as Dad hits him, but its enough to stun his father into stopping.  
  
And Vic's still laughing as he staggers into their room, finds Vincent's (not-so) secret stash. He only stops laughing once he's so high that he's too numb to do anything except lay there and wish Eddie had been here to see it all go down.  
  
Maybe he'd laugh too, at what a fucking joke Vic's life is._

* * *

Eddie isn't laughing. He doesn't bitch either. Maybe most surprising, he doesn't even interrupt. Vic avoids looking at him as he talks—he can tell Eddie's uncomfortable, which, goddamn, he is too. What he says has no structure, no real clear-cut aim. It's just a mess of all the shit that Vic had to witness, between Dad and Vincent, and turns into admitting that there was some shit involving him too.  
  
Vic's mouth feels dry by the end of it; he never talks this much, to Eddie or anyone. He's never had anything to say, really, other than smart-ass remarks. Besides, Eddie's pieced together enough on his own, and what he hasn't... it doesn't matter. Is fucking meaningless. Shit happens, and Vic moves on. He has to.  
  
That's what this is, though, isn't it? A _lot_ of shit happening and... and Vic moving on, just in an entirely different direction than Vincent. It sucks. He'd go days, even weeks at a time, without saying a word or two to his brother, and was fine with it. Now it's been less than three hours since they said their goodbyes (or, Vincent said, “Fuck you,” and Vic said, “Yeah.”) and Vic isn't sure what to do with this dull ache in his chest, like a bruise from Vincent socking him there. He's still so fucking pissed at Vincent for not listening to a word he had to say, but at the same time, he doesn't know how to face a world where he might not ever have another chance to tell Vincent to go fuck himself, and have Vincent cuff him upside the head or slug him across the shoulder.  
  
As fucked-up as it is, it's the only normal Vic knows, and an outlet he requires. Their shared aggression keeping them from taking it out on anyone else.  
  
Well, it _was_ the only normal Vic knew. Now all the novelty of Eddie, of the Cabot lifestyle and mansion, have worn off and it's what Vic really knows. Likes, even. When he's never liked much of anything or anyone, because there wasn't any real reason to.  
  
“Fuck,” Eddie says after a heavy silence and the assumption that Vic's done with his story.  
  
“Yup. Pretty much.” Vic takes the cigarette from behind his ear, fishes his lighter out of his pocket. The cigarette is just catching the flame when Eddie rips it from Vic's lips.  
  
“Don't fucking light up in here!” He shows off the cigarette, like Vic doesn't know what he's going on about. “You know Daddy's rules, and he's still pissed about that hole you put in my school blazer last month.”  
  
There's a hundred smart replies Vic has ready: that him scorching Eddie's jacket made it look better; that this room smelling like smoke is a thousand times better than how it usually smells, like that Jovan Musk shit that Eddie was always dousing himself in; that what's gonna happen if Vic smokes one more cigarette? He'll spontaneously cough up a whole lung and drop dead?  
  
If only.  
  
Instead, he opts for honesty. He's too fucking drained for anything else.  
  
“Eddie... I just had my brother walk out of my life and don't know if I'll ever see him again. Think a cigarette might help a bit. Maybe let it slide this time?”  
  
Eddie lets it slide. Without another word, they settle in to watch the last few minutes of _The Twilight Zone._ Another episodes starts up, which is fine with Vic. Even though he's absolutely exhausted, his mind's in overdrive. He won't be sleeping any time soon.  
  
He appreciates Eddie staying up with him, and even more so that he doesn't have to say it.  
  
When the show cuts to a commercial break, Eddie says, “So you're staying over,” with feigned nonchalance. Vic knows he can't refuse—that at this point it's a statement, not an invitation.  
  
“I'm not climbin' back out, if that's what you're asking.” He uses the empty cereal bowl at Eddie's nightstand as an ashtray. The dark ashes mix with the dregs of the chocolate milk.  
  
“Well, you know where your room's at.” There's a guest room on the other end of the floor that's become Vic's.  
  
“I'd rather stay here,” he says coolly. “You got the TV.”  
  
Eddie smirks back at him—that's not the reason at all. Vic's stayed in Eddie's room, in his bed, even, enough times now that it's not weird. To them, anyway. Joe might have a stroke and Vince would have an absolute field day if he knew about it, but whatever. Risk, reward, and all that.  
  
After telling Vic he'll be right back, Eddie slides off the bed and leaves the room. Vic's alone with his thoughts, as has been the case most of his life. Knowing that someone else has accessed them—even more so, because he _told_ them—it's strange, although not as horrible as he'd convinced himself it would be.  
  
He was exaggerating, a little, when he said didn't know if he'd ever see Vincent again. Vic's estimation is that it'll be within the next two to four years, tops, but he doesn't _know_ that. For all he knows, Vince could go over the edge tonight and OD, or has the Chevelle in a ditch.  
  
See, it's a hell of a lot to take in, but Vic doesn't have any kind of “this-is-the-worst-night-of-my-whole-life” feeling. There's a “this-is-a-super-fucked-up-mess” kinda feeling, but also...  
  
A “this'll-work-out” feeling. Optimism; is that what it's called? The hell if he knows, but it's not so bad.  
  
When Eddie returns, it's with some of the stuff from Vic's room—clean clothes, and a half-empty carton of Red Apples. He doesn't complain when Vic lights a new one with his smoked-down first one, and as a show of gratitude, Vic does his damnedest to not get ash on the bed. Takes the cereal bowl, puts it in his lap, just to make sure. Eddie say something about how they oughta get some sleep because they have school tomorrow, but stays wide awake at Vic's side as they watch the episode.  
  
Or, Vic's looking at it. He's not really tuned in—for one, this bitch with bandages all over her face won't shut up about having them removed, and it's grating. But mostly it's because there's this... other problem he has, that he can't quit thinking about, that's a direct result of the night's events.  
  
Well, it _could_ be a problem. Vic causes a lot of problems for Eddie, always has, but that's outweighed by there being a lot less problems in Vic's life, because of Eddie. Vic wants to tell him this. What it means. That it _does_ mean something.  
  
It's not some huge fucking epiphany or anything—he's always kind of noticed other guys in a way he wasn't supposed to. Knew better to act on it, yeah, but mostly there wasn't any guy worth acting _on_.  
  
But now there's Eddie. There's always been Eddie, Vic just had been too fucking dense, and it took Vincent proposing Vic could get on in life Eddie-less to make him realize it.  
  
It's been this way for a while. Eddie making him... not feel, exactly. But experience life. Less of an emotion and more of a... sensation. Not like an urge to jack off or anything (he can _hear_ Vincent insisting that's the case, except Vincent's proven himself a fucking idiot), but... he's attached. Alive. Able to enjoy the shitshow that is the real world, and tethered to moments instead of disconnecting himself until they pass.  
  
He's not nervous about this. At all. There is the possibility Eddie will freak out, sure, but if he ditches Vic over it, then at least it's all happening at once. Vincent and Eddie, the only two people he'd ever been able to rely on, gone in the same night. It'll be easier to deal with.  
  
“There's more,” is his lead-in. “With Vincent.”  
  
“Jesus, of course there's more,” says Eddie, and when he sees Vic's slight frown, he clarifies, “Your brother, Vic... shit, he's a real piece of work. Runs in the family, doesn't it?”  
  
“Yeah, well that happens when you get smacked around more times than you can count.”  
  
This silences Eddie, at least for the time being. Good. Maybe he'll actually bother to listen without interrupting—if Vic can even get the words out. How the hell do you tell your best friend you like him in some faggot way that's liable to get your ass handed to you if he doesn't take it well?

Just get it over with, that's how.  
  
“So, yeah. Vincent wanted me to go with him. I mean, he said he did _—_ but I don't think he actually wants me to, just doesn't want me to stay at home.”  
  
And obviously, Vic didn't take him up on his offer.  
  
“The fuck?” says Eddie, more surprised than Vic anticipated. “I know you two aren't attached at the hip, but I woulda figured... What the hell d'you wanna stick around for?”  
  
“Finishin' school up. Vincent doesn't wanna be anywhere near here—he's probably on the other side of the city by now, with his dealer or whoever. So runnin' off with him... I'd probably end up droppin' out.”  
  
“Since when do you care about _school_?”  
  
“Since Joseph said I need to finish it,” Vic says, keeping one eye on the TV. _Twilight Zone_. Fitting. “So I'm not a... you know, bad influence on you.”  
  
“Wait, my _dad_ gave you a stay-in-school talk?”  
  
“Yeah, I never told you that, huh? He said I gotta graduate, 'cause he wants me to come work for him and I gotta prove I can see myself...” Vic makes a sort of arrow with his flattened hand, insinuating someone forging ahead. “You know, _through_ , because he doesn't want some useless stooge—he's got you for that already.”  
  
Eddies elbows him. “Yeah, and so the fuck what? You wanna work for him that bad?”  
  
Vic laughs, but it dissipates quickly and he explains, “Kinda. But if I drop out or flunk, he's not gonna let us see each other, either.”  
  
Vic knows he could have worded that differently. Eddie does too, the way he squints at Vic, like maybe he didn't hear him right. But they both know he did.  
  
“Right,” Vic clears his throat and continues, “so I didn't have time to tell Vincent all that. What I told him was that I couldn't just leave... That I have friends here.”  
  
“Toothpick, if you got other friends, I don't know how you met 'em with you stayin' over here twenty-four-seven.”  
  
“No, and he knows that. But he said wherever we go, I could find someone else like that 'fuckin' Cabot kid.'”  
  
“Vincent called me that?” Eddie, calm a moment ago, sounds ready to pummel Vincent into the ground.  
  
“No, I'm callin' you that.” Vic exhales a thin stream of smoke at Eddie, laughs low and raspy.  
  
Eddie shoves at him, laughing too. “So you ditched your brother and stayed in town with your shithead parents... so we could still hang out?”  
  
“If you feel like puttin' it that way—yeah, I guess I did.” Vic tries to downplay it with a shrug, and takes a final drag from his cigarette, drops it into the cereal bowl. “More or less.”  
  
Eddie doesn't seem thrown by this. If he wanted to tell Vic to can it, that this was too fuckin' weird to be talking about, now would've been the chance. As much as Vic reminds him of it, Eddie's not really dumb, or he's at least smart enough to read between the lines of what Vic's said.  
  
Which makes it really fucking annoying that he's not reacting at all. Dammit...  
  
Vic sets the bowl aside, turns so he's more angled toward Eddie. “Look, I'm not any good at talkin' about this kinda shit. How it makes me feel. Besides shitty. You know: this is shitty, I feel shitty, Vincent is shitty—that's pretty much all I've got a handle on tonight. How shitty all of this is. But... when he was talkin' about me leaving—and I started thinkin' about dropping out and not seein' you anymore, that's uh... well, what's worse than shitty?”  
  
“ _Really_ shitty?” Eddie suggests.  
  
“Yeah. Vincent telling me I should go off with him, leave you behind 'cause I'll find some other friend 'like that Cabot kid'—that was the shittiest part of this whole fuckin' night.”  
  
“And a fuckin' lie,” Eddie says, cracking a smile. He puts an arm around Vic, a supportive hand on his shoulder and jostles him playfully. “Sorry, but you aren't gonna find _anyone_ like me.”  
  
Vic senses, is hyper-aware, of Eddie's arm still around him. Not dropped away like it should've. “Eddie, either quit saying retarded shit like that, or I make you quit.”  
  
“Yeah? You know I'm right; you go to every motherfuckin' town in the state, and you let me know if you find another friend like me, who—"  
  
“—treats me as somethin' other than a delinquent ready to pull a knife on someone who looks at him the wrong way? Yeah, I know, you don't gotta point it out. It's... I'm grateful.”  
  
“To be fair, you _are_ that, Vic.”  
  
Vic narrows his eyes, takes a split-second to plan his next move. Then commits. “What'd I tell you 'bout runnin' your mouth?”  
  
Eddie doesn't answer. Vic doesn't give him the chance.  
  
Vic's never really had an opinion on kissing—like a lot of things in life, it wasn't something he'd ever been interested in. But kissing Eddie seems, _feels_ , like for once in his goddamn existence, he's not fucking up.  
  
He has absolutely no idea what he's doing, just kind of eagerly moves his mouth against Eddie's motionless one. Unsure what to do with his hand, he lets it fall to Eddie's thigh, gripping and refusing to release him.  
  
Then he's pushed. _Shoved_. Square in the chest, and falls back on the bed. Vic is rarely shocked, much less shows it, but his eyes widen when he sees Eddie staring down at him. Jaw clenched, eyes large and lit with... rage? Disbelief, maybe. Or both. Something bad, Vic knows that much—he's so familiar with it. Something...  
  
That is not going to be easy to deal with. That Vic is _never_ going to be able to deal with.  
  
He grounds his thoughts, enough to choke out, “Eddie...” A deep breath, and no apology. “I'll go. I'll—”  
  
“The fuck was that?!” Of course, Vic doesn't have an acceptable answer—it speaks for itself—and Eddie barrels right on. “You taste like a fuckin' smokestack! You make a fuckin' move on me like we're in some cheap motel after prom night and you wanna get your dick sucked in two seconds flat?”  
  
_What_? Which is worse, to confirm or deny it? Vic looks past Eddie, to the ceiling, praying his answer is written somewhere up there.  
  
“I asked you a question, Vic! The fuck d'you think you're doing, kissing me like I'm some hooker you picked up from the street corner?”  
  
Vic can't help himself. “A little louder, Eddie, I don't think you woke your dad up...”

Eddie grabs Vic by the collar, hauls him upright and shoves him off the bed. “Go rinse that fuckin' smoke out of your mouth, and think about what you've done. When you get back, we can go about this the right way.”  
  
_When I get back_? Vic thinks. “The right way...?” he asks.  
  
“Jesus, Vic, you listen about as well as you kiss.” Eddie points to his door. “That's what I said, now get a fuckin' move on!”  
  
“Alright, relax,” Vic says, crossing the room as Eddie calls for him to shut up, he is fucking relaxed and to make sure to close the door, for God's sakes.  
  
Head spinning, Vic feels his way down the hallway to the bathroom; he's so used to coming from the opposite direction, from the guest room, and he's so absolutely _delirious_ that he almost walks right into the fucking laundry closet instead of the bathroom. He's just glad he isn't anywhere near Joe's room. If Joe found Vic like this right now, he'd accuse him of being stoned or drunk.  
  
And when Vic looks in the bathroom mirror, the grin reflecting back at him is proof that he wouldn't really be able to fault Joe for thinking that.

* * *

_There's some stupid-ass school dance coming up at the brothers' school. Vincent's trying to hook Vic up with some sophomore who's allegedly an easy lay—at least, she was for Vince. But Vic says he's never been to a school dance, so why start now? He'd rather smoke up over at Eddie's with K-Billy's all-request show_ _on in the background.  
  
“Besides, if I really wanna dance, Eddie's there,” he jokes. Sort of.  
  
He reaches over to turn up Vince's car radio. The song that's starting up, “Take the Money and Run,” he heard for the first time when he was out with Eddie a couple weeks ago. He likes the memory more than the song.  
  
Vincent swats his hand away, turns the volume back down. “You needa be more careful, Toothpick.”  
  
“'Bout what?”  
  
“You fuckin' know what. You don't gotta girlfriend, and you're schmoozing with that Cabot kid every waking second you're not in school. People'll start sayin' you two are a couple of queers.”  
  
Vic looks at Vincent, blinks slowly. “Okay.” He shrugs, goes back to staring out the window.  
  
“You're not doin' yourself any favors, you know? You wanna act too cool for school, like you don't give a fuck what anyone says about you, but you're gonna start carin' if they think you're some pansy.”  
  
“Everyone'll say the same about you when they see you dance.”  
  
“Man, fuck you. I'm tryin'a look out for you.”  
  
He wants to tell Vincent that Eddie already looks out for him—he just doesn't rub it in every fucking chance he gets. But that won't help his argument.  
  
Not that there's anything to argue about—half of it, anyway.  
  
“Okay, Vince, yeah,” he concedes. “You're lookin' out for me. Thanks.”_

_Friday night comes, and he and Eddie get stoned. That god-awful overplayed song, “Show Me the Way” gets requested on K-Billy, and since they're joking around about the dance, it's Eddie who asks Vic to dance. They do. Not together, but just like, dancing, as terrible as the song.  
  
Vic tells himself it's to spite Vincent. And it is. _

_Sort of._

* * *

He raps his knuckles lightly on Eddie's door, a staccato _tap-taptap-tap-tap_! so Eddie knows it's him. He's barely dropped his hand when the door flies open, then closed again, and he's slammed up against it.

The room is dark now, except for the TV humming in the corner and the hideous purple lava lamp on Eddie's desk. It casts an eerie glow over Eddie, whose fists are tight in Vic's t-shirt, stabilizing him.  
  
“You brushed your teeth?”  
  
Vic blows out a puff of minty fresh breath.  
  
Eddie gives him a shake. “And you think about it? Wanna do this the right way now?”  
  
Vic makes a low noise from the throat, and Eddie takes it as the yes it's meant to be.  
  
Eddie kissing him is different than him kissing Eddie. Not better, really, but not bad either. Just... weird? And slow. _Like_ _Eddie_ , Vic thinks, and ends up laughing into Eddie's mouth, tongues slipping against each other's.  
  
Eddie pulls away. “The fuck is so funny?”  
  
“Nothin',” Vic says, _really_ smiling now. “You practicin' on your pillow while I brushed my teeth?”  
  
“ _That's_ how you kiss someone, Vic.” Eddie whales him on the arm. “Fuckin' dumbass. You're gonna treat me right.”  
  
Vic licks his lips. “Show me how it's done, Nice Guy.”  
  
Eddie's mouth is on his again, and Vic decides to actually try this time. This kissing thing isn't half-bad, with Eddie manhandling him throughout it.  
  
As the kisses grow deeper, longer, and Eddie starts pulling at Vic's shirt like he wants it off, Vic wonders dimly if they'll end up fucking. His hand's always been enough, but if Eddie fucks with as much enthusiasm as he kisses, Vic's not opposed to giving it a whirl. Whatever leaves Eddie satisfied.  
  
Vic nudges them away from the door, aware and thankful that Eddie's just wearing a t-shirt and boxers. The chances of them fucking are definitely higher than if Eddie were fully clothed—he guesses Eddie would demand he do it, because it's more romantic that way, or some shit, but Vic can't be fucked to deal with peeling off more than one layer of clothes.  
  
They reach the bed; Vic falls back onto it, tugging Eddie down and unable to stop kissing him. Eddie stays aggressive with him, hands pressing, squeezing, digging wherever they go. He keeps Vic pinned, knees on either side of him as hips rock against Vic.  
  
Breathless, Eddie sits back, grins down at Vic. “Holy shit. This is crazy—fuckin'... isn't it? Fuckin' crazy, Vic. Crazier than you.”  
  
“Yeah, pretty fuckin' wild.” Vic laces his fingers behind his head, like he's just lounging out on a beach somewhere. Like this is some paradise. It kinda is.  
  
“How do I know you didn't make up the whole story about Vincent, so that I'd pity kiss you?”  
  
''Cause you didn't anyway—I had to get things started, like fuckin' always.” Vic brings a hand out, lets it drift to Eddie's leg. Up his thigh, sneaking under his shirt and hooking into the waistband of Eddie's boxers. “'Sides, it's a bit extreme for just a kiss. That kinda tale deserves a pity fuck, I'm thinkin'.”  
  
“And I'm sayin' you'll get what you get, and like it.” Eddie leans down to kiss him, doesn't help Vic as he fiddles with his boxers.  
  
“Yeah...” Vic groans, nothing to object to when Eddie swaps their positions by rolling onto his back, clutching Vic possessively.  
  
God, if he ever _does_ see Vince again, Vic'll have to thank his brother for actually fucking doin' him a favor for once.

* * *

_Vic has two choices: help Mom with making sure Dad's cage isn't too rattled, or go after Vincent.  
  
It's not really a choice.  
  
He reaches the end of the block, where Vincent's Chevelle is parallel parked. Vince is letting loose every curse and slur known to man and stuffing a trash bag full of his belongings into the back seat. Doing a shit job of it, too. Clothes and shoes are spilling out, onto the garbage-ridden floor. It'd probably be the same even if he wasn't coked out of his mind.  
  
Vic wanders closer, lights himself a cigarette while leaning against the passenger side door and waiting for Vince to notice him.  
  
Finally, he does._ _“Let's go.” Vincent points to the front seat._  
  
_Vic climbs in, knowing they're not going anywhere. “Where?” he asks.  
  
Vincent has no fucking clue. He always insists he's the smarter one, and Vic usually finds himself agreeing, although he also doesn't think that says much. And there's a difference between smart and perceptive. Vincent is definitely not the latter.  
  
“Outta here,” Vincent says, finally. “'The fuck outta here, let's go. I got friends all over the city, we'll find someone.”  
  
'We'? Vic isn't finding anybody. Not anyone from 'all over the city', anyway.  
  
“Nah, we don't gotta do all that. You're makin' way too big a fuckin' deal out of this.”  
  
Vincent just needs to take a goddamn minute and assess the situation. Or, have Vic do it for him. The solution is right in front of him, if he'd bother to look without dilated eyes.  
  
“Me bein' homeless now isn't a big fuckin' deal? I'd love to know what is, then—no, you know what, comin' from you, I don't think I do.”  
  
Vic ignores the slight, taps his cigarette into the already overflowing ashtray. “We can go to Eddie's. Joe's cool. I'll explain everything—or, enough of it, anyway. He'll be fine with you stayin' as long as it's not more than a couple of days, and as long as you try and get clean. That's more than enough time to figure out what to do next.”  
  
“I'm not goin'—! Vic, goddammit, I don't mean just leavin' home, I mean getting' the fuck out of here too! Like, _here _, this neighborhood, all of it. We gotta get out.”  
  
Vic's never had a ton of patience, but he also never puts himself in predicaments where it's tested. Like he did tonight. “Vincent...” he starts. “I'm not goin' to live with you and a bunch of junkies. I know it doesn't mean much to you, but I got friends here. And someone's gotta make sure Mom's taken care of.”  
  
“You don't care about Mom.”  
  
“No, but her turnin' into a coke fiend doesn't help me out.” Dealing with Dad, he means.  
  
“So that's why I'm sayin', come with me! Fuck our parents, you know it's always been you and me.”  
  
What the fuck life was Vincent living? It was never him and Vic. It was Vincent, looking out for himself. Vic, doing the same, with the occasional forced overlap.  
  
Until, a couple years ago, when Vic found what Vincent claimed he was always providing. From Eddie.  
  
Fuck it, Vince'll go batshit, but Vic's past caring. “I'm not goin' anywhere with you unless it's to Eddie's.”  
  
“What d'you need Eddie for?” Vincent smacks his palm into the steering wheel. “You come with me, Vic! Fuck Eddie, you'll find yourself more friends like him, alright? Better ones.”_

_Vic's defenses immediately go up. Like he's being flailed on from all sides. His hand closes into a fist. Opening, closing, again and again; it's all he's aware of, can concentrate on. Channeling his fury into the tight repetition of the action. So he doesn't smash Vincent's teeth in.  
  
Vic has never hated Vincent. Vincent has pissed him off, annoyed him, disappointed him to various degrees, but Vic knows what it's like to hate someone, and he doesn't hate Vincent.  
  
Except right now, he hates Vincent.  
  
He brings his hand up—if he starts beating on Vincent, he won't stop... _

_And he'll end up in jail. Break all his promises to Joe, and shatter Eddie's pathetic little heart.  
  
Instead, he reaches for the door handle; Vincent'll get his comeuppance. And he'll have pissed that person off even more, that they'll enjoy finishing him off more than Vic ever would._  
  
_“Alright,” he says, a strained calm. “That was your chance. Now it's off the table. See you when I see you, I guess.”  
  
He gets out, slams the door with only a trace of the anger rushing through him. _

_The whole car judders, and Vincent, between cursing at Vic, starts it up. Then he reaches over to angrily roll the passenger window down.  
  
“You're just gonna bolt on me? Your own brother?” He's looking around the car, anywhere at Vic—probably for something to chuck at him. “After all the times I was fuckin' there for you! You need me, Vic; you always have, and you're always gonna.”  
  
“Keep tellin' yourself that. Was nice knowin' you, Vince.” It's a shitty thing to say. Vincent deserves worse, but Vic can't think of what.  
  
“Fuck you.” Vincent flips him off, does a goddamn six-point turn out of the parking space. If he even makes it onto the freeway without swerving off the road, it'll be divine intervention at work—which Vic's never believed in.  
  
“Yeah,” Vic says indifferently, knowing Vincent doesn't hear him as he studies the fire hydrant beside him instead of checking to see if Vincent bothers to look back.  
  
Vic stays there to finish his cigarette. Thinks of lighting the last one, but tucks it behind his ear for later. He'll need it.  
  
Vincent's gone. Not just out blowing off steam, down at the beach for a weekend, or tied up at a club with his addict friends. He's gone, and for all he went off that Vic was the one spurning him, is content to permanently leave Vic alone.  
  
Vic can't blame him, and yet blames him so fucking much. Is glad—fine, good riddance, fuck you too—and somehow misses him already. Wishes he coulda done something more, but unflinchingly chose Eddie over Vincent.  
  
And he'd do it again, a hundred times out of a hundred. Over anyone, even himself, he'll pick Eddie every time. He's always known that.  
  
Vic flicks the cigarette stub into the open sidewalk grate, and exhales a shaky breath, feeling like he's been dropped into a whole different universe. Now, it's not just that he knows he'll always pick Eddie.  
  
It's that he knows why.  
  
Fuck. What a fuckin' night._

* * *

Fuck. What a fuckin' night.

His own name, Eddie panting it repeatedly, still rings in his ears as Vic swipes at his mouth, hand coming away sticky and damp. Who fuckin' knew there was anything besides Red Apples he'd like having his lips around so much? Speaking of which...  
  
He gropes around the nightstand for his smokes. Goddammit, his lighter's in his jeans, and his jeans are on the other side of the room. Eddie swore at him for almost knocking over a lamp when he threw them.  
  
A flame dances inches from him, catches. Vic smiles, and Eddie stops him from taking that first puff with a rough kiss.  
  
“You'll kiss me when I taste like dick but not like smoke?” Vic taunts as Eddie draws back and selects a Red Apple for himself. “'The fuck are you doing? You don't smoke cigs.”  
  
“Yeah, and I don't let my best friend suck my dick either, but here we are.” Eddie lights up, and coughs like an inexperienced dumbass as he inhales. He takes the cereal bowl and puts it on the bed in front of them, tapping his cigarette between coughs.  
  
_Here we are_ , Vic agrees internally. He squints at the TV, that's still running _The Twilight Zone_.  
  
Eddie notices, follows his gaze. “Fuck, I'm wiped out... God, this is still goin' on? Yeah, thanks buddy,” Eddie says to Rod Serling as he announces entering a dimension not only of sight and sound but of mind. Switching the TV off, Eddie flops onto his back next to Vic. “Hopefully your night's a bit less shitty now.”  
  
“It's lookin' up.” Vic blows a ring of smoke towards the ceiling. Glances sidelong down at Eddie. “Think we both needed that.”  
  
“Think we both need each other, Toothpick. But I guess it helps that you want me, too.”  
  
It's so stupidly simple, how Eddie says it. But it's true, too. Again, _kind of like Eddie, himself,_ Vic thinks, leaning down, intent clear. Eddie meets him halfway—and yelps as hot ash rains from Vic's cigarette onto his exposed chest.  
  
“You fuckin' asshole!” Eddie smacks at him, but he's laughing and lets Vic kiss him anyway.  
  
Forget thanking Vincent. If Vic ever sees him again, the first thing he'll do is rub it in Vincent's fucking face how wrong he was. How Vic'll never find anyone else like Eddie.  
  
Because he's never gonna bother to look.

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a deep dive into a mash up of my headcanons for toothpick bitchslap and the Vega bros. I'm not trying to apologize for Vic, because honestly I love how absolutely perfect he and Eddie are for each other in all their toxicity, lol. But I do have a lot of thoughts on Why He Is The Way He Is, so that's where this came from. Avi is COMPLETELY to blame for this as we've done nothing but indulge each other with endless conversation about teen!Toothpick Bitchslap and Vega bros dynamics, so this is for her. Thanks again, bud!
> 
> Also, Avi and I hc the Vega bros as fraternal twins but I know it's also common to think of Vincent as being older so I tried to keep it ambiguous. Even though I see them as twins, I think Vincent would be the older one and therefore attempt to take on that role and be terrible at it, with Vic being just as terrible in not communicating, like, at all, any issues he has with Vincent. At least, in a healthy manner. But who wants healthy characters when it comes to Tarantino films and fanfic, amirite?
> 
> Thank you for reading if you managed to finish it! Comments and kudos are always appreciated! <3


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